them."
"What did you say when he told you?"
"I—I don't really remember. Something like it was good to fall in love. Something like that."
She'd been encouraging. Loving, not logical. "He was lucky to have you as a friend."
"He was lucky to have both of us," she said. "And we were lucky to know him."
I opened my mouth to say something else, but Elissa put a finger to my open lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "You're getting that dazed look. It always happens when you think too much." Her skin tasted salty. She pulled her finger away, put it to her lips. "Shhh. Just forget about everything for now."
I nodded. She grabbed my hand and led me onto the street. "Enough tribal interactions for tonight," she said. "One can only be tacky for so long."
We wandered along silently for several blocks. She didn't let go of my hand. I tried not to think about what this might mean, concentrated on enjoying the warmth of her skin. We walked onto Broadway, into the bright neon lights of the bars and restaurants. Cutting across the street, we took a dark lane instead.
"By the way," Elissa said finally, "I like your hat. It's very cool."
Pride swelled up, but then Dad's hat felt loose, as if a small wind might lift it from my head. Without thinking, I pulled my hand from hers and held the hat down. After several steps I realized my mistake.
Stupid. Stupid me.
Though we walked together for another twenty minutes, I never found the guts to reclaim her hand.
At midnight, Elissa and I hugged in front of my house. For a long time. Then I went inside, my legs all wobbly.
Mom was meditating in the living room, surrounded by candles and a haze of pine incense. Ommmmmm emanated from somewhere deep inside her throat. Her lips didn't move. She could Ommm for hours, contacting various internal organs, willing them to function in perfect harmony with the rest of her body and the universe.
I padded past her. Stopped. Changed my course and sat down.
She opened her eyes. Smiled. "You're home," she said. "Nice outfit."
I slipped off the hat. "I was at a party. A tacky dress-up party."
"So you went disguised as your father?"
"I was myself. I was pretending I was on safari."
"Was it fun?"
I shrugged. "It was...well...entertaining."
"Good."
A long silence followed. She continued to smile.
"Mom. Tell me again. What happens when we die?" I asked.
"We ascend to the next stage of existence. Shed our flesh. Become pure spiritual energy. We have so much more to do. To become."
"What if I don't believe that? What happens to me?"
"Your doubts are natural. All will unfold as it should."
I nodded. "That's good to know," I said.
I retired to my room. Everyone had an answer. But I had none. I sighed. My lot, apparently, was to be an analyzer.
I went to my desk and recorded the day's events. Finally—arm tired, mind emptied—I collapsed on my bed and dreamed of jungles, tsetse flies and Elissa's warm hand.
eleven
SON OF THE NDEBELE
I was born in Saskatoon City Hospital at 11:05 p.m., August 19. My mother endured nine hours of labor and refused all medication. The attendees were a female doctor, two nurses, and Mom's midwife, Priscilla. I increased the population of the room, the city and the world by one.
I was also born at the same time fifteen thousand kilometers away in the district of Mpumalanga, South Africa. That's where my father was living with the Ndzundza, an Ndebele tribe. He had been there for six months, had heard of my mother's ever-swelling belly via letters.
Kgope, an old man of the tribe, burst into my father's conical mud house (there was also some dung mixed in as cement) and announced, "Unto you has son been born." It was 7:25 a.m. local time.
Dad was stunned. How did Kgope know? There were no phones. My father hadn't even spoken of the expected child.
Kgope explained: "My wife awoke. Shouted out 'Krep.' Then left our matrimonial bed and made this." He handed my father a Swazi tribal doll of cloth and
"What did you say when he told you?"
"I—I don't really remember. Something like it was good to fall in love. Something like that."
She'd been encouraging. Loving, not logical. "He was lucky to have you as a friend."
"He was lucky to have both of us," she said. "And we were lucky to know him."
I opened my mouth to say something else, but Elissa put a finger to my open lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "You're getting that dazed look. It always happens when you think too much." Her skin tasted salty. She pulled her finger away, put it to her lips. "Shhh. Just forget about everything for now."
I nodded. She grabbed my hand and led me onto the street. "Enough tribal interactions for tonight," she said. "One can only be tacky for so long."
We wandered along silently for several blocks. She didn't let go of my hand. I tried not to think about what this might mean, concentrated on enjoying the warmth of her skin. We walked onto Broadway, into the bright neon lights of the bars and restaurants. Cutting across the street, we took a dark lane instead.
"By the way," Elissa said finally, "I like your hat. It's very cool."
Pride swelled up, but then Dad's hat felt loose, as if a small wind might lift it from my head. Without thinking, I pulled my hand from hers and held the hat down. After several steps I realized my mistake.
Stupid. Stupid me.
Though we walked together for another twenty minutes, I never found the guts to reclaim her hand.
At midnight, Elissa and I hugged in front of my house. For a long time. Then I went inside, my legs all wobbly.
Mom was meditating in the living room, surrounded by candles and a haze of pine incense. Ommmmmm emanated from somewhere deep inside her throat. Her lips didn't move. She could Ommm for hours, contacting various internal organs, willing them to function in perfect harmony with the rest of her body and the universe.
I padded past her. Stopped. Changed my course and sat down.
She opened her eyes. Smiled. "You're home," she said. "Nice outfit."
I slipped off the hat. "I was at a party. A tacky dress-up party."
"So you went disguised as your father?"
"I was myself. I was pretending I was on safari."
"Was it fun?"
I shrugged. "It was...well...entertaining."
"Good."
A long silence followed. She continued to smile.
"Mom. Tell me again. What happens when we die?" I asked.
"We ascend to the next stage of existence. Shed our flesh. Become pure spiritual energy. We have so much more to do. To become."
"What if I don't believe that? What happens to me?"
"Your doubts are natural. All will unfold as it should."
I nodded. "That's good to know," I said.
I retired to my room. Everyone had an answer. But I had none. I sighed. My lot, apparently, was to be an analyzer.
I went to my desk and recorded the day's events. Finally—arm tired, mind emptied—I collapsed on my bed and dreamed of jungles, tsetse flies and Elissa's warm hand.
eleven
SON OF THE NDEBELE
I was born in Saskatoon City Hospital at 11:05 p.m., August 19. My mother endured nine hours of labor and refused all medication. The attendees were a female doctor, two nurses, and Mom's midwife, Priscilla. I increased the population of the room, the city and the world by one.
I was also born at the same time fifteen thousand kilometers away in the district of Mpumalanga, South Africa. That's where my father was living with the Ndzundza, an Ndebele tribe. He had been there for six months, had heard of my mother's ever-swelling belly via letters.
Kgope, an old man of the tribe, burst into my father's conical mud house (there was also some dung mixed in as cement) and announced, "Unto you has son been born." It was 7:25 a.m. local time.
Dad was stunned. How did Kgope know? There were no phones. My father hadn't even spoken of the expected child.
Kgope explained: "My wife awoke. Shouted out 'Krep.' Then left our matrimonial bed and made this." He handed my father a Swazi tribal doll of cloth and
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